Toothpaste
by Brithna
Summary: I found this story on my hard-drive a few days ago. It's about five years old and I guess I forgot all about it. I have no idea how to summarize it. So... Enjoy.


A simple tube of toothpaste. That's all it takes to set you off. Toothpaste; strangled in the middle, squeezed tightly in what you imagine is a typical response to an early morning. It angers you. It reminds you of something Stephen would do, or the girls, especially. Another words, it is childish, unpleasing to the eye and violently opposed to everything you are: refined, polished and sophisticated.

Three words that technically all mean the same thing: flawless.

Before you realize what you're doing, you've grabbed the toothpaste and are about to head into the bedroom, ready to confront the disaster of a person who has dared to make such an offense.

Then you remember something.

This tube of toothpaste doesn't even belong to you. It's not yours. Neither is the bedroom you were just about to charge into. And, newsflash, you aren't even in the bathroom (it obviously doesn't belong to you either) to brush your teeth. You're in here getting dressed…so you can leave.

Because you never _sleep_ with her.

The kissing; the sex, those things have their purpose between the two of you, that much has been established. But never sleep. It's not been discussed, nor has it ever been implied that you should remain in her apartment beyond what is necessary.

And now, for some reason, you're standing here angry and shivering from the cold; you'd only made it into your panties and bra before you saw the toothpaste.

There's a robe you could put on. It's right there on a hook, staring at you about as hard as you're staring at yourself in the mirror right now. But, like you already know, it's not yours either. None of this is. You have no place here. No business being here. Whatever is going on between you should have ended a long time ago. Don't all office affairs end at some point?

If so, then why has this gone on so long? Why can't you stop looking at her? Why can't you fire her? Why can't you, at the very least, last more than a few days without the peaceful feeling you get when your lips touch Andy's skin?

 _Andy._

The very thought of allowing _Andy_ into your consciousness is disgusting. Andrea. Her name is Andrea, damn it. But it never seems to stick, does it? No matter how vigilant you are, the longer this goes on, your mind references _Andy_ —not Andrea. At least you haven't said it out loud; an undeniable testament to the power of prayer.

So that's another thing that makes you angry besides the recklessly handled toothpaste. This sin your mind commits daily. _Andy_. That can't be a good thing. None of this can be a good thing.

But if it isn't good…well, it certainly feels good under the right circumstances, doesn't it? Yet, you're standing in her bathroom, angry and cold. Two things you needn't be.

You aren't angry because she strangles her toothpaste as if she were a child.

You're angry because you wish there were reason enough to have your toothbrush right beside hers, and toothpaste, because you're just not a Crest person.

You're angry because you've never allowed Andy (see, there you go again) into _your_ bed. Sneaking into her home is easier than welcoming her into yours. Sneaking into her home is easier than explaining yourself to your children…or to her, for that matter. Which is also why you sneak right back out of her home, isn't it? Yes, sneaking into and out of her life is easier than boldly looking at this for it is.

You're angry because you've never _slept_ with her. You've never allowed yourself. As she tries hard not to sleep at all, you trail your fingers along her back in a slow, rhythmic movement that forces her to do just that. And she burrows into you, searching for something. Maybe it's simply warmth. Some part of you, in the back of your mind, prays that in those moments, she is searching for more than that. But for all your praying, the whole point to that little exercise is to put her to sleep so that you can walk out, never knowing what exactly she is in need of.

Frankly, you couldn't take knowing, officially, that she might be fine with you leaving in the middle of the night. It's easier if you just slip away in secret; no awkwardness. She doesn't have to kiss you goodbye. You don't have to kiss her goodbye. At least not while she's awake…

As for her name, little soul searching needs be done. It's quite simple. You're comfortable around her. So comfortable that half of what makes you flawless slips away at the mere thought of her.

After everyone's gone home from the office to wrap themselves in family and a sense of normalness that is miles away from your understanding, you don't sit up quite so straight in your chair. You don't have to. Andy (okay, now you've just stopped trying, haven't you?) is not one to be impressed. She couldn't care less how you sit, one way or other. Actually, that isn't true. She does care. The degree of your slouch determines whether she brings you a late night latte with an extra shot, or a cup of tea that will inevitably settle you even further into your chair.

And there are other things.

After everyone's gone, you take off your shoes. You yawn. You run your hands through your hair in frustration. You raise your voice when you talk about Irv or anybody else in the office that's pissed you off lately. The later it is, the more likely you are to lose your glasses and pitch a fit about it, only to have her remove them from atop your head.

See? Less refined. Hardly polished. Certainly not sophisticated.

She's turned you into someone capable of uttering her name in not the way _you_ think it should be said; but in the way _she_ wishes it to be said.

In the mirror, there are tears running down your face. The last time you cried was… Well, you can't remember. Whatever it was, it probably had something to do with your children or your mother. But here you are, shivering, holding a tube of toothpaste, with tears freely in your eyes.

Taking a deep breath, letting go of the indecision and anger, you put the toothpaste down on the counter, not bothering to smooth it out. Nothing here needs to be smoothed out but you. You've been such an idiot and all the while Andy's been nothing but understanding. Or at least that's what she appears to be: understanding. Maybe, underneath it all, she's hurt, but obviously too scared to say what she needs. Let's face it: even though you slip away into the night, there is ample opportunity for her to speak up, but she doesn't. So it must be fear.

Well, it's time you found out, isn't it?

You're back out of your panties and bra and into her robe in a few short seconds but just before you reach for the door handle…there's a knock. She's beat you to it. She's finally given in, searching (you know it, without a doubt) for an answer. She's done waiting. She's done trying to figure out a way to make you stick around.

Little does she know, all it would take was some toothpaste. You briefly think about telling her but forget as soon as you open the door. She's standing there in nothing but a sheet, silently searching for you.

For whatever reason, you can barely look her in the face but you manage it, grabbing her hand. "Come to bed," you say it gently, quietly, afraid to give away that suddenly you're downright ashamed of how you've been treating her. God only knows what she's been thinking all this time. Probably that you only believe this is a fling, something to relieve stress or…who knows. But it is none of those things. And you intend to prove it.

She doesn't go willing though, tugging back on your hand, standing still as you try to make it to bed. Andy wants her search to end right now. She wants to know what you're answer is. She wants to know what she means to you.

Going back to her, you wrap your arms around her, paying no attention to the fact that she is not hugging you back. Right now, you don't necessarily deserve a hug. She should have kicked you out on your ass months ago.

"I'm not leaving again, Andrea." You're whispering but are confident that you sound sure and steady. "It's never been right. To leave you like that. You deserve better."

While you might sound sure and steady, her voice shakes and her body trembles as she finally put hers arms around you. "Yeah, well…" she says, barely able to talk. "I've been trying to be patient. And not scared shitless."

You tighten your grip on her with one hand and brush back her hair with the other as she rests her head on your shoulder. "You need not be patient or scared _shitless_ any longer." You can't help but laugh a little. You never curse, but have to admit that in this situation, it gets the point across far better than anything else. "I'm right here," you add, taking care to sound completely serious. "Old and bitchy as hell, mind you. But I'm right here…for as long as you can stand me."

Another words, you've just committed yourself to 'forever'. A word you've never used in your life—out loud or otherwise.

"You're not old," she says sternly, pulling her head up to look you in the eye. "Bitchy, maybe. But not old. You run circles around everybody."

Oh, if she only thought about that for a little while: the amount of vitamins and coffee and protein shakes it takes for you to do just that—run circles. You're honestly surprised you can afford it; giving away more money than you keep has always been your secret.

But enough about vitamins and coffee and protein shakes. Andrea's eyes are red and bit puffy and tomorrow is coming on fast.

"Come to bed," you tug on her hand and she follows. "We'll figure everything else out later. Right now, let's just get some sleep, Andy."

Damn it…

The youthfulness in her is overcome by the slip (you've really done it now, haven't you?) and she jumps onto the bed, managing somehow to keep the sheet around her.

"I knew it!" She laughs, looking down at you as you grow more exasperated by the second. "I knew you'd finally do it!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you cut in on her laughter, reaching out to try and catch her. She moves out of the way just in time. "Get over here!" You finally crawl onto bed, determined to make her forget everything.

The unhappiness she must of felt; the fear of rejection; the uncertainty; all of it. You want to erase it and start over. You want to erase everything until all that's left is a new start…and the toothpaste, of course.

The End


End file.
